


Fragile things

by KIBITZER



Series: Offal Hunt [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23274109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KIBITZER/pseuds/KIBITZER
Summary: Glynda Goodwitch, Beacon first-year, had a pathological obsession with killing Grimm.--[Side fic toOffal Huntchapter 18 (so, spoilers up until Offal Hunt 18 as well); not standalone]
Relationships: Glynda Goodwitch & Ozpin
Series: Offal Hunt [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673611
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Fragile things

**Author's Note:**

> I want to break these bones 'til they're better / I want to break them right and feel alive  
> You were wrong, you were wrong, you were wrong / My healing needed more than time

The annual Vale Talent Exhibition was more than a mere formality, more than just a show. Though it attracted wide crowds of civilians to watch and be inspired by feats of strength and ability, it hosted trainers and teachers from across the country, all with an eagle-sharp eye for qualified recruits. Dozens of aspiring Hunters would participate in duels and demonstrations with a singular goal in mind: to be noticed.

Perhaps one had never had the chance to make a primary combat school graduation, but still possessed talent to be scouted for the Hunters’ colleges. Perhaps one wished for early acceptance, or a personal trainer to help clear the entrance exam. Whatever the reason, they were here to prove themselves, to be seen by the people in power.

There were many ways to a Hunter’s license. With a graduation diploma from a primary combat school, one could freely apply to take the entrance exam to enter into Beacon’s hallowed halls. But even without that, without even a page of paperwork from Signal or its sister schools, one could enter by proving oneself. To be scouted here by a trainer, or maybe even directly by a school official, would be a massive leap forward.

Headmaster Ozpin was in attendance, of course, as always. He watched the opening ceremony with a pleasant demeanor, seated in a VIP box alongside the Headmasters of various primary combat schools and well-renowned Hunters seeking proteges. As Headmaster of Beacon Academy, Ozpin’s attention was maybe the single most vied-for resource; but he also had a reputation of restraint and caution. Headmaster Ozpin would rarely make exceptions; he believed firmly that one must be well and truly ready before entering Beacon Academy, and would delegate most to professional trainers and mentors for preparation instead.

He resembled the civilian crowd more than he did his fellow Headmasters—laughing and applauding, gasping where appropriate, simply cheering on the performers.

In theory, anybody could apply to perform at the Exhibition, provided they could pass entry-level auditions. In reality, it was only very rarely that someone was a true outlier from their group. There were, generally speaking, two classes of performers, and the groups performed in turn. First were the youths: usually in their middle years of primary school or higher, up until the graduation age of 17. The group above that was eighteen up.

At the end of the youths group, the announcer fumbled their cards. It was an unwilling slip of the finger as they did a double take. “The last performer in the youths group,” they said, reiterating their line. “Is the youngest attendee in the Exhibition’s history—”

_In theory,_ anybody could apply to perform. But it was still viewed as a serious event; one had to pass through a preliminary auditions round.

Glynda Goodwitch was ten years old when she climbed onto the stage.

A ripple passed through the hundreds of audience members. Glynda didn’t seem nervous; she didn’t “seem” anything at all. She stared at the audience blankly and curtsied when the announcer addressed her.

There was an intrigued murmur about the VIP box; Professor Ozpin glanced around. The Headmaster of Signal Academy leaned to him and said, “Gunning for early acceptance?”

“Three years early,” Ozpin said contemplatively. “Makes one wonder.”

“Maybe they passed her through auditions for novelty’s sake.”

“Maybe,” Ozpin said, in a tone that was politely absolute-neutral. He turned his eyes back to the stage.

The announcer was doing a pre-performance bit—probably got told to do it, for novelty, like Signal’s principal said.

“You’re a young one,” the announcer said, leaning down towards the girl a little and presenting the hand mic to her. “You got any special dreams you’re lookin’ to achieve?”

The kid narrowed her eyes a mere fraction, almost invisible across the distance to the audience seating, and she grasped the mic impatiently. “I want to be a Huntress,” she said, clear but flat, like she couldn’t be bothered explaining herself.

“Ah, you’re probably hoping to catch Professor Weaver’s attention? Up there,” and they pointed to the Signal Academy Headmaster. He gave a helpful wave and friendly smile, but Glynda didn’t look at him for more than a split second.

“No,” she said, looking Ozpin’s way, “Right now, I’m applying to Beacon Academy.”

* * *

It was all the staff could talk about. Ozpin found himself frequently flagged down in the hallways by faculty members wanting to discuss and—to be frank—gossip about the Vale Talent Exhibition.

Of course, it wasn’t particularly rare for faculty to offer their thoughts and recommendations in the wake of the event, but never had they been so single-minded and so facetious. They all wanted to talk about Goodwitch, but none of them were offering a serious recommendation; it was preposterous. Ten years old! Publicly announcing her application to Beacon, eye-to-eye with its Headmaster!

On this day, Ozpin was stopped on his way across campus by one Jack Boots, Professor of Aura & Semblance. Her tabby-cat ears were pricked, standing on end from a tangle of orange hair, and she pulled Ozpin aside excitedly—“Professor Ozpin, finally, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about—”

“The Exhibition?” Ozpin guessed, leaning on his cane. They stood in the lush gardens around the school, where students would lounge and mingle, where the sunlight dappled brightly on fountains and artificial ponds.

Professor Boots shifted her weight, visibly excited. “Yes! Yes. I’m sure everybody is talking to you about it, but—well, it was an extraordinary one, hm? Been a few years since one was this exciting. You know, about that girl—”

Ozpin breathed a laugh. “As I thought,” he said, spying a nearby bench. “May we sit? I would, of course, hear everything you have to say.”

They were seated, and Ozpin made himself comfortable. Professor Boots crossed both her arms and her legs as if consciously withholding all her delighted energy. “That kid,” she said, launching right into it—“They said she was ten, right? Ten?”

“That’s right.”

“Absolutely remarkable.” Professor Boots pushed her glasses up with both hands, then folded her arms again. “Ten! Did you see her Semblance? That she has it at all is—is already quite early, but—”

Ozpin leaned forwards until his chin was resting on his hands, folded on the haft of his cane, and looked up. The sky was blue; dots of cotton clouds drifted lazily by, and his heart felt about as distant. “She seems to have exemplary control,” he supplied.

“She showed amazing control of both Aura and Semblance. Of a higher level than we expect of our own third-years. Do you even understand how _wild_ —I mean, of course you do, you’re you, but—” she gestured wildly, at a loss for words. “And total telekinesis, at that? Something so powerful—it’s only ever recorded every, what—”

“It’s been about two hundred years,” Ozpin said.

“And she’s in perfect control of it? At _ten_? I’ve never seen anything like it. In all my years of study! I don’t mean to get so excited, but it is my field, after all—in my own lifetime! You’ll see to her education once she’s seventeen, I trust. I mean—wow. She could be the best out of Beacon, of all time. Is her family, like, strong-blooded? I’ve never heard of them. Goodwitch, was it?”

Ozpin cleared his throat subtly. “Yes, no—I’m afraid they’re deceased. Huntresses, yes, but completely normal on the record.”

“You looked into her?” Professor Boots leaned closer. “You’re interested in taking her, too? I knew it—”

Professor Ozpin swallowed thickly as if the brooch he wore were pinned directly through the meat of his throat. “Well, I shouldn’t speak too freely,” he said. “But yes, I have considered—with her degree of aptitude, naturally—”

“She’s an outlier, huh? In all senses. Not only in her family, but—she’s the first potential student you’ve personally looked into, right?”

“Right. In all senses.” Ozpin smiled thinly.

Naturally, the nuances of his absentminded response were beyond Jack Boots. They were beyond most currently living beings.

There was no doubt in Professor Ozpin’s mind: Glynda Goodwitch was a Witch, the newest in the line. That soul, passed down from Witch to Witch, resided within a ten-year-old girl with her eyes on a Huntress license.

“I’m glad they got up an Aura display for her,” Professor Boots was saying, distantly to Ozpin’s ears. “She barely dipped into her Aura, even with all the tricks she was showing off! Could you believe it? She must have huge reserves!”

“Endless, almost,” Ozpin agreed.

“You’ll make sure she attends, right?” Professor Boots put a hand on his shoulder. “I want to teach her! You won’t let her go to—to Haven or Atlas or—”

“I don’t control that,” he laughed. “But I am considering reaching out. Surely, assuming she’s still interested in attending when the time comes, we can arrange admission in advance.”

“That’s a big move for you, sir,” she said, but didn’t sound disparaging.

He rolled his shoulders noncommittally and looked away. There was no way to explain to Jack Boots the significance of this child. There was no explaining to Jack Boots that this little girl was only ten but inside of her was a soul so ancient it preceded all recorded history. That it had existed for as long as the moon in the sky had.

Ozpin leaned back against the bench and sighed. “Still, ten is quite young to be entering any combat schools. Three years until Signal will take her—I’ve never heard of a primary combat school taking early admission.”

“It’s preposterous,” Professor Boots agreed, one of her ears flicking. “Still, she certainly seems to have the aptitude for it.”

Ozpin touched the brooch pinned to his scarf and said, “That she does.”

* * *

“I mean, she—” A laugh. “She begged us to let her go. She’s never asked us for anything before.”

“Mm. She’s a good kid, but she’s—” A pause, like searching for words. “She doesn’t want much.”

Ozpin was sitting in a sofa, across from three people sharing another sofa. There was a low table between them set with coffee and biscuits. He had politely taken one at the beginning of the meeting, while glancing around the room; it was a comfortable living room, very tidy, big enough for a family. The doors were closed, however—this was a meeting between just adults.

In front of him he had the Director in charge of the Central Vale branch of the Blackwell School: a man somewhere in his fifties who seemed a little excited to be meeting the Headmaster of Beacon Academy. Next to the Director were two women; employed as caretakers by the school and the people currently looking after Glynda Goodwitch.

The Great War, in its time, left a large number of children orphaned. Blackwell was established in its wake, to take in the bereaved; to this day, almost two centuries later, it remained, equal parts boarding school and group home. The children attended general education at Blackwell during the day, and otherwise lived in its housings divided into smaller sibling groups with foster parents. There were six children in this particular group, with two adult caretakers; they sat before Ozpin now, reminiscing.

“She’s always been quiet,” one of them was saying. “She doesn’t really talk unless she deems it necessary.” She laughed a bit.

“It’s not a problem, really,” the other one quickly assured. “She’s quite willful. Even when she’s nonverbal it’s pretty easy to tell what she wants.”

“She’s tidy. Does her homework well enough. But she doesn’t seem to be—taking root. Thriving. She’s never really—worked towards anything specific, I guess? At least, not like this. She’s never acted like this. She’s always been a bit stubborn, but she’s never made demands like this.”

Ozpin sipped the coffee he had been served. “Her abilities and drive are certainly in place,” he said. “She gave us quite a show at the Exhibition. What was it she lifted?”

The Director chuckled. “A van. Getting approval from the committee to have a four-ton van in the show was pretty hard. But, hey—for the kids. You know?”

“She wanted to do a show duel,” one of the women said, helping herself to a cookie, “But the committee dug their heels in about that one. We did too, for that matter.”

“For her sake?” Ozpin asked, smiling over the rim of his cup, “Or her opponent’s?”

The two women exchanged a telling look.

“I am greatly interested in her talent,” Ozpin said plainly, setting his cup down. “She is too young right now, but in time, I would very much like to offer her a place at Beacon. Provided, of course, that she still wants to attend.”

“Thank you, Professor,” one woman said, while the other nodded enthusiastically. “I don’t think any of us have any doubt she will be just as determined as she is now, if not more.”

Ozpin folded his hands. “I want to recommend her to Signal Academy.”

That caused a wave of silence. The Director broke it: “Right now, sir?”

“I know she’s young,” Ozpin said. “Too young, normally, but—there’s a test, an aptitude test. We could let her try. And if she passes it—I mean, she would need a tailored curriculum, but Professor Weaver is an accommodating man.”

He left them with some pamphlets about the aptitude tests for primary combat school. Pulling on his coat in the entryway and preparing to brave the chill of Vale’s winter outside, Ozpin felt the thrum in his chest off-balance, like his old heart had skipped its rhythm.

Turning around, he spotted the child herself—Glynda stood in the shadow under the stairs, staring at him.

Standing in the same room as her, there could be no doubt: she was the Witch. He felt it deeply like the tolling of a great bell quaking his rib cage. He wondered for a moment if her soul recognized him, as he did it—even after almost two hundred years, the feel of her soul hadn't changed at all.

The pressure it exerted was like smoke in the air and it coiled around Glynda like a snake ready to strike as she sized him up.

“You were talking about me,” she said. Her tone was neutral; her expression was more searching than accusing.

“Yes,” Ozpin said, leaning on his cane. “Hello, Glynda.”

She didn't return the greeting, but she did step out from behind the stairs. She was growing up fast; taller than average already.

“They don't want me to go,” she said. “I know.”

“They're worried because they care about you,” Ozpin said.

That seemed to give Glynda pause. After a long moment, she said: “If not now, when can I attend? How soon?”

“We’ll have to talk more with your guardians and a primary combat school,” he said. “I can't confirm anything concretely.”

The fact that he wasn't outright denying her seemed to spur her on. There was a fire in her eyes; a determination to succeed that shone as brightly now as it had two centuries ago. “I'll attend,” she said. “I know I can do it.”

“You should look at a primary combat school first,” Ozpin said mildly. “Beacon is—”

“If I do well there, will you accept me early?” She cut him off boldly. “I'll prove myself.”

“The systems and regulations in place are there to protect students,” he tried, but it didn't dampen her fire in the slightest.

“But there's no rule _against_ it,” she argued.

“I must be going,” Ozpin said. “Once you have papers from a primary combat school, Beacon will be proud to have you.”

She clenched her fists and jaw, and said nothing when he bid her farewell—but she stared at him fiercely, until the door closed and cut her line of sight.

* * *

Glynda Goodwitch enrolled at Signal Academy at age ten.

Her curriculum was amended with lesson plans from her original school, but practical classes were replaced entirely with combat. Eventually, she tested out of her original classes, filling her schedule with Signal’s more advanced material. Everyone around her was thirteen—it didn’t seem to bother her. Even at a time when a few years made a huge difference, with classmates hitting growth spurts left and right, she had an unfair advantage the entire time—the Witch soul.

Ozpin was the only one who knew of it, of course. When Professor Weaver brought him reports and wondrous tales of young Glynda’s exploits, Ozpin was rarely very surprised. He himself had trained alongside a Witch, centuries ago; he knew there was no human force that could stand against her. Not once she had her mind set on victory.

The young Witch excelled in Aura & Semblance, learned to be quick and light on her feet in Practical Combat, and zoned out through Weaponforgery. She was tall, but less dense than her older classmates; every day she developed new ways to stay out of reach, to use their own weight and gravity itself against them. She was nimble and stubborn and tough as nails. And it was clear to anyone who looked her in the eyes: she was delighted.

She applied herself wholly, with a brand-new zest for life no one had described in her before—and Ozpin could practically feel her eyes boring into his back wherever he went, her determination to chase him down and make him accept her growing stronger in lockstep with her abilities.

That kid was going to Beacon, come hell or high water, whether they wanted her to or not.

The worrying part of all the reports was that, despite her vigor and achievement—or perhaps, because of them—Glynda did not seem to make any friends. When pressed about the issue, she bluntly said that she didn’t care, that she was fine on her own—but it gave her supervisors pause and cause for concern to see her working herself to the bone without a single schoolfriend.

But then, even the other Blackwell children had never considered Glynda their friend. Glynda Goodwitch was not a child that made friends, she was not a social person at all; even her legal caretakers couldn’t get more than distant smalltalk out of her, more like an acquaintance than a family member. That was worrying—not only because of adolescence looming ever nearer and the vast existential loneliness it entailed, but also due to the lack of camaraderie in the high-stress environment of combat school. She braved all of it alone, all the stress and the work and the change, and never once did she complain or reach out for help.

And no matter what they did, no one could seem to make her.

Of course, Ozpin knew that this was not his problem, that she was not his student—yet, anyway—, but he couldn’t help but feel in some part responsible for her.

Time went on. Glynda Goodwitch participated in the Vale Talent Exhibition again, naturally—at age eleven and again at twelve, each time showing strong progress and a portfolio of new tricks to wow the audience. With Signal Academy backing her, she was able to show exhibition duels, proving that combat lessons had already left their mark on her—when she was twelve, Glynda and her classmates put on a nine-on-one show that left the audience gasping.

It was a playfight; it was a show match. But Glynda’s role as the single defender to a nine-man onslaught elevated all the kids into something sharper; something more visceral—because Glynda moved with ferocity and grace in the same breath, her soul rippling through the air inside one’s lungs, because even though all the combatants were merely sparring they had to match her somehow. Because she could take it.

Not a drop of blood was spilt, not a single shield was even dented; it was a skillful performance, orchestrated by a leading actress forged of Aura and steel. When she alone remained standing at the final moment, it was thanks to a brilliant coordination of Semblance, tactics, and physical ability that would leave even professional Huntsmen impressed.

Professor Ozpin clapped; Professor Weaver laughed and shrugged as if to say “that’s just what it’s like these days”, and somewhere in the stands, Professor Boots was likely beyond herself with amazement.

“So what do you say?” Professor Weaver said, when the clamoring had died down and the students helped each other up and left the stage together, “Will you take her?”

He had leaned quite close to Ozpin’s ear to speak, so Ozpin thought it polite to reply in similarly hushed tones: “You sound eager to get rid of her, Professor.”

Professor Weaver reclined in his seat with a laugh, giving up on stealth. “I fear she’s outperforming her class at this point,” he said. “I don’t have anywhere more advanced to put her. I’m worried for her, you know. That she might try to pull too high and end up destroying the rest of the class—or that they’ll eventually turn on her, as the nail that sticks out. She has no allies—I fear they may decide to become her enemies, in time.”

No single human could best her, Ozpin knew—not with that soul. But he also knew well how attrition and brutality could wear down a Witch. How it ground the soul apart until it had nothing left to give. And how, despite magical prowess, the Witch was still just a girl; a human, susceptible to psychological harm.

He nodded gravely, watching the next act with distant eyes, one finger tapping his chin in thought. “That is worrying,” he agreed. “I just don’t know if…”

“I know. Three years early to Signal? That’s preposterous. But _five_ years early to Beacon?” Weaver searched for words to express how outlandish the concept was, but failed, and merely laughed. “But I don’t know what I can do for her at this point, Ozpin.”

“Beacon is tough, too,” Ozpin replied thoughtfully. “If we’re talking about social challenges.”

“But one can prove oneself at Beacon,” Professor Weaver said. “We were all outcasts at Beacon until we earned our place in the circle.”

Ozpin sighed, closing his eyes tight. Seconds passed in silence. He pinched the bridge of his nose and readjusted his glasses, clearing his throat. “If you think she’s ready,” he finally said.

Glynda Goodwitch was given her primary combat school certificate at age twelve, graduating from Signal Academy that same semester.

* * *

It came as a surprise to precisely nobody when Glynda Goodwitch passed the Beacon entrance exam. At that point, everyone had heard of her—and her fiery rise to claim what she wanted.

Ozpin called her in for an interview in the immediate wake of the exams. They hadn't spoken to one another since that day at the Blackwell group home, but the ring of her soul was as familiar as ever when she entered the building.

She sat down across from him. She had grown a bit taller since last time, and wore glasses now. Her hair was short, and at some point, she had shaved the side of her head; it was growing back in, currently a riot of inch-long blonde hair. Her face was blank.

“It's good to see you again,” Ozpin said. “Would you like anything to drink? Tea? Water?”

Glynda frowned. “I'm fine,” she said, adding almost as an afterthought: “Thanks.”

Ozpin shuffled his papers. He had a whole stack of papers on her, including her graduation certificate from Signal, as well as the record of her entrance exams. “Well. I thought we should talk. Beacon is quite different from Signal—a lot of things may change from here on out.”

She nodded.

“First things first, your living arrangements. Are you still living with Blackwell?”

“I stayed at the Signal dorms,” Glynda said. “I went back to Blackwell over breaks.”

“Oh, so you're already accustomed to living in a dorm?”

“I prefer it,” she said quickly. “It’s tidier.”

“You probably know this already, but Beacon only facilitates live-in students. We will arrange a single room for you.”

“Good.”

“Which brings me neatly to my next point,” Ozpin said, shuffling his papers and drawing out a legal document. “You are a ward of the state. You know what that means?”

She nodded. “It means the government is in charge of me, instead of my parents.”

“Beacon will be your home for as long as you remain there,” Ozpin said. “The duty to act as a parent and make choices for you that a parent would will rest on the institution. In a sense, Beacon itself will be your parent. As long as you are enrolled as a student, you are one of its charges, and the school will make decisions on your behalf—including, if your enrollment becomes a hazard to your wellbeing, termination of your training.

“You and I will have weekly meetings, and I will meet with Blackwell every fortnight. As far as the law is concerned, I'm personally responsible for you and your safety, and I won't hesitate if things seem detrimental to your health.”

Glynda tensed up, gritting her teeth. “It won't come to that,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Beacon is not like Signal,” Ozpin warned.

“I know that. Everyone keeps telling me. But Beacon is where I want to be.”

Ozpin paused, leafing through her papers, mind racing for an approach. He asked: “Glynda, why do you want to attend so badly?”

She worked her jaw as if he had given her a complex riddle to answer. Looking down, she said, “I know I can do it. I’m good at it.”

“Yes, your performance at Signal certainly proved your aptitude for the work,” Ozpin said, pressing once more: “But why do you fight for it so strongly? You have many years ahead of you, you’re young—why does it have to be _now?”_

She was quiet.

Seconds dragged on into a minute and more. The tension of silence didn’t seem to crack her; it seemed only to make her retreat further into that stony blankness, until she seemed entirely absent from the room. The weight of her soul swelled against Ozpin’s, crushing him down for daring to pressure her.

Speaking softly, he prompted, “Glynda?”

She flipped from tension to absence in that instant. Like a puppeteer had made an abrupt choice in direction, she slumped back in her chair, expression dark and empty, staring at her hands as she spoke: “I dream about it. Every night.”

“You dream about it? What do you dream about?”

“About Grimm,” she said. “About the hunt.”

“About your parents?” he asked gingerly.

“No,” Glynda said. “About Grimm. About the hunt.”

“Nightmares?”

“Yes. Every night, I’m hunted, and I hunt back. I’ve died hundreds of times—all torn apart—or sometimes I’m the one who tears—but no matter who wins, I feel sick inside when I wake up, like I’m not where I’m supposed to be. It’s calling me.”

“The hunt?”

“The Grimm.”

Finally, she looked up, meeting his eyes again. Hers were flinty and distant, carved empty by her own honesty. She continued: “I have to go because I have to. That’s all there is to it. Something in me knows where I’m supposed to be. I’m a Huntress.”

At a loss for words, Ozpin merely sat there, taking it in—and he began to understand. This child had nightmares of being slaughtered by Grimm—for as long as she could remember. She had unlocked her Semblance at some point and realized her extreme potential, and her obsession with Grimm naturally became a target—turning the tables on the spectre that haunted her, so to speak. All of this was fairly straightforward; anyone could have pieced it together.

But Ozpin was burdened by the knowledge that the dreams Glynda had were likely not dreams at all; they were a slurry of memories and instinct, carved deep into her soul and called forth by the constant subliminal awareness of Grimm around her. He remembered how keenly Vivienne could sense them; he wondered what that awareness was like to a child unaware of what she was noticing.

Glynda was a Witch. She killed Grimm, and they haunted her in turn. Her fixation was written into her DNA, primed from birth to seek Grimm and destroy them, to protect humanity.

Of course she would strive for Beacon.

* * *

Glynda Goodwitch, Beacon first-year, had a pathological obsession with killing Grimm.

She listened intently through all of her lectures, watched like a hawk as Professor Obsidian explained diagrams of biology and hunting strategy. Her essays were perfect. Her combat drills were edged with dissatisfaction that she was up against humans. Tunnel vision seized her until she was single-minded intent taken human form.

Everyone had been assigned into teams of four, of course—Glynda was no exception. They had been matched through random draw and introduced to each other at the admittance ceremony.

In their second semester, Glynda’s team returned from the field covered in Grimm-black ichor and blood. They had been on a quadrant sweep with Professor Boots; a basic recon mission.

Clearly, it had not been as peaceful as intended for a band of first-years. Professor Boots looked stressed and tense as they all disembarked on the Beacon cliffs.

None of them were in critical condition, and the school psychiatric team assessed them one by one. They were a bit rattled, but ultimately emboldened by their experiences—but they all seemed extremely nervous to discuss Glynda.

She came up in every meeting.

They had become separated from their professor. They had been ambushed first by a pair of Beowolves, which injured two of the kids in the struggle. While the other children were frightened of Grimm, Glynda had seemed _terrified._

And once the Grimm were dead, she seemed like nothing at all. Her first kill was messy, gore spraying over her and her team, and by the time they managed to find their professor they all knew something was wrong.

Glynda wasn't afraid. She didn't communicate. She didn't listen to Professor Boots.

She pointed a direction and said “The nest.”

With the expectation that they would go clear it out.

Professor Boots, attempting to wrangle Glynda’s wayward instincts while coaching two teens through their first major battlefield Aura healing, was nothing but background noise.

Glynda didn't listen.

Glynda was still injured when she showed up for her meeting with Ozpin the following day. She shouldn't have been injured still; not with her Aura, not with the intense healing capabilities it overflowed with.

The wounds that remained were overexertion injuries. Aura-splinterings that would take time to heal. The result of using too much Aura too fast—of demanding too much of the body, to the point of injuring the soul. Despite all of her supply, the Witch wasn't immune; especially not an immature, inexperienced Witch, with no reasonable gauge for how much power she was expending.

Her right arm was in a sling and she supported her weight suspiciously on the table as she rounded it. Ozpin knew his expression was dark, but Glynda was unaffected as she took her seat.

She stared at him blankly.

“I hope that you realize,” Ozpin said, in his best attempt at being firm but calm, “that your actions on this mission will not be taken lightly.”

Glynda didn't answer.

“You put yourself and others in great danger.”

She just stared at him, like she didn't know what he wanted from her.

He sighed. “You disobeyed your mission leader, abandoned your partner, endangered yourself and your team—Glynda, you do understand that you're in trouble?”

She nodded stiffly.

“Everyone has told us their story,” he said, adding mildly: “Do you have anything to add? What did it look like from your perspective?”

Glynda looked down, at the table and his folded hands, at her arm in its sling. “I…I don't know.”

“You don't know?”

She shook her head. “I only remember pieces.”

Her voice was flat and her expression blank, but Ozpin understood that her very soul had a choke-hold on both her emotions and her memories.

“What did it feel like?” he asked instead.

She looked up slowly. “There were many Grimm,” she said. “I knew that we shouldn't engage. I could feel that they were too many. I pointed out the nest but I could tell they had noticed us. They had noticed me. Like in my dreams, they knew where I was.”

“Were you scared?”

“No. I was scared by the first Grimm, but when I killed it I knew that this was _real life_ and _it_ should've been scared of _me_. I wasn't scared by the nest. I knew I had to go in.”

Ozpin watched her carefully, and not a twitch of emotion passed her features. She continued: “I must have made a decision. We had two people down and a nest of Grimm keyed in to our location. I knew the others didn't know how many or how big. But I knew that if the Grimm got there, they would all die, injured or not. I must have decided that I should go ahead. I remember feeling relieved that I had made up my mind. I remember that I felt like I had to protect them. Even if I—even if it cost me.”

She worked her fingers, flexing her right hand. Her skin was marked by red webbing, like a strike of lightning; thankfully faint, as her condition was not critically severe, but still an undeniable sign of Aura Strain. If twangs of pain shot up her arm like Ozpin suspected, she didn't show any response.

“I don't remember much after that point,” she said. “It's all foggy. I was eager to fight.”

“Why didn't you inform Professor Boots of the situation? She could have put out a distress call faster than she did if she had known. She could have protected you, as is her job. It wasn't your job to act out; it was your job to keep your team leader informed.”

“We had two people down,” Glynda said again. “Professor Boots was already winded from her fight against the Beringel. I was our best option, and there wasn't any time to confer.”

“The Beringel?”

“When we got separated. She was attacked by—”

“You already knew that she faced a Beringel? She told me she kept details about her battle secret from all of you to keep you from panicking. Grimm like that are rare in that area.”

“The size and movements of it matched,” Glynda said. “Of course I knew a big Grimm was fighting someone. I know my Beringels from my Beowolves, sir. Or am I wrong?”

“No,” Ozpin said. “You aren't wrong.”

Her precision surprised him, but then, he didn’t expect Glynda to ever stop surprising him. Even for a Witch, she was extraordinarily tuned-in.

Still, faced with knowledge of errant Grimm far above the expected grade, Glynda had not panicked.

“With Professor Boots already winded, and two of my teammates needing her assistance to stay conscious, the math was pretty simple,” Glynda said. “I was the only one who could protect us. So I did.”

“Did you take your partner with you?”

“No,” Glynda said. “She followed me in. To protect me, I guess. Unnecessarily. I think Professor Boots came a few minutes later. The two injured must have been dragged into the fight after that, because the Grimm spread out. I couldn't keep them focused on just me anymore. Too many variables showed up.”

Ozpin leaned his forehead in his hand and said, “Your account is illuminating. Thank you. But you must understand—”

Glynda raised her voice for the first time in any of their conversations. “It was strategically sound until they ruined it! If they had just stayed put—and not _interrupted_ me—”

“If they had stayed put, you might not have made it back to have this conversation,” Ozpin said. “Do you understand?”

Her blank facade was cracking; she looked indignant. The blaze in her eyes was back. “I did the best I could with what I had,” she argued.

“You should have communicated more with your team,” Ozpin said. “You are not the only person in danger when you're in the field. Glynda—”

“It's fine if I die!” she bit, “I don't care! I was doing my job!”

“Glynda,” Ozpin said, “You're thirteen years old. You may make up for your lack of experience with your immense technical skill, but you are only human. You can die. Don't throw it around like it doesn't mean anything. Thousands of Huntsmen and Huntresses before you have died bitterly. This isn't a game.”

“I know that, Professor.”

“In that case, please try to think of your teammates. Imagine what they would have to do, if you were killed because you went off by yourself. Do you think they want to bring you back to Beacon in pieces?”

“I don't, Professor. Though, given the circumstances, it's more likely they would have had to leave my body behind.”

She was steel; she was soul; she was colder than Vivienne had ever been and it settled like an unpleasant chill over Ozpin’s insides.

He feared for her. He feared for her because she didn't. Because she couldn't see anything scary about dying in the line of duty. Because she was thirteen and willing to die just to hunt.

She had two primary drives: to protect humans, and to kill Grimm.

She would follow them, no matter what.

No matter what.

* * *

Glynda was suspended for a month. It was equal parts punishment and protection; her body needed time to recover, and her mind needed time to stew over her behavior. Her partner brought her class assignments, but other than the homework, she had little to do.

As a result of lacking a member, her team couldn't go on regular missions; they were relegated to drills and first-semester level assignments. With their second year rapidly approaching, it was a frustrating setback.

Glynda was the most frustrated of them all. She was angry; at being kept from doing missions, at being stationary. She was not allowed to participate in strenuous physical activity until her body healed from the Aura Strain. She refused to leave her room most of the time, except to eat in the food hall. She was sulking.

A week into Glynda’s suspension, Ozpin was approached in his office by Professor Jack Boots. She was serious that day.

“She's exceptional,” she said, taking a seat across from Ozpin. “But it's like she's—too exceptional. Her skill and power are _too_ high. She’s never been in trouble. She has no sense of self-preservation.”

Jack wrung her hands and adjusted her glasses nervously. “We have to temper her somehow, but I don't know what to do with her if things go wrong again. That mission was—unnatural, Professor. I've never seen Grimm swarm like that. I felt so helpless. And that girl just kept throwing herself at them—covered in blood and gore, but it was like she couldn't stop, like she was—possessed. I need to know what to do. I have to know how to handle her.”

Ozpin couldn't say that he didn't know either, that he also was uncertain of how to wrangle Glynda’s blind obsession. 

He said, “Hopefully this suspension will make her reflect upon her behavior.”

“Will that be enough?” Jack pondered.

“I also want you to give her supplemental lessons,” Ozpin said. “She has Aura aplenty, but she needs to know how to ration it in a prolonged altercation. She fights by blasting through everything quickly, using huge bursts of power. She was injured because of that impulse, so unlearning it right away is important.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll see to it,” she said. “Her control is exceptional, but she rations like a blown faucet. I’ve never seen her like that in class, so I didn’t—I didn’t know. I would have helped her sooner if I…”

“It was an extraordinary situation,” Ozpin reassured her. He went on: “After I heard you and the other students’ interpretation of events, Glynda explained it to me from her perspective. Surprisingly, she acted logically, but her risk-assessment and teamwork are abysmal. We have to train her mind. She’s in a dangerous spot if this continues, but we have a vital chance to slow her down in time, before something worse happens. I want you to prioritize her and start teaching her as soon as possible.”

“After her suspension ends, or right now?” Jack leaned back in her seat. “You’re all exceptions when it comes to her, sir.”

He smiled. “Well, she is an exception herself, no? Right now, if you please. Consider it urgent.”

Professor Boots rolled her shoulders, rubbing out an ache from her neck. A faint redness still marked the joint. “Oh, it’s urgent, all right, let me tell you—never been so beat up in my life. Yeesh.”

She rose to leave, but Ozpin held her for a moment more: “You said you’d never seen Grimm act like that. Was there anything else notable about the event? Any out-of-place Grimm or…?”

Jack paused to think. “Not really,” she eventually said. “A Beringel is unusual for the sector, but not entirely unheard of. They were just—aggro. You know? On an ordinary day, you’d expect nested Grimm to stay nested, unless something cataclysmic occurred. I’ve never seen Grimm of that size act so fevered. They were too old to act like that. It’s like something was clouding their judgement.”

She looked down and smiled. “Not to imbue Grimm with any higher emotion, of course, but—simply—they were acting like whelps at their first kill. You expect more calculated menace from them at that age.”

“But you didn’t see any notable Grimm aside from the Beringel?”

“No, sir.”

Ozpin nodded, relaxing slightly in his chair. “Thank you. That’s all I wanted to ask.”

* * *

Three weeks into her suspension, Glynda failed to show up at her weekly meeting with Ozpin.

Immediate concern roiled in him. She had been punctual to a fault for almost a year; it didn't seem like her to miss an appointment entirely with no warning.

He waited until he was certain she wasn't showing up, and then went to find her.

Asking around, it seemed like no one had seen her that day; she hadn't even been in for meals in the food hall.

When all of her usual haunts turned up empty, Ozpin headed for the dormitories. They had given Glynda her own room; a rare exception, but it had been deemed a necessary one, given the potential social difficulties her age could cause. Beacon was no stranger to bullying, after all; and the power dynamics of placing a child in a room of stressed teens had a clear pecking order right out of the box.

Not that Glynda was a pushover, but—her turning on them would be bad as well. She was certainly capable of hurting them, if pushed. Could certainly go even further.

The board had decided it was better to avoid the entire headache altogether.

Glynda wasn't in her room, but as he stood in the dormitory building, Ozpin was certain he felt the presence of her soul. She was nearby; that was a relief, even if he had some searching left to do.

He knocked on her team’s door, determined to ask after her. The door was opened by a teenager he recognized as Glynda’s partner, Odile.

“Hello,” he said mildly, and Odile—clearly caught off guard by the Headmaster knocking on her dorm room door—stammered a return greeting.

“I was looking for Miss Goodwitch,” he said. “She seems to have missed our appointment. I was wondering if you..?”

“Oh,” Odile said, settling down a bit with the knowledge that she wasn't in trouble or anything of the sort—“Yeah. Glynda’s up on the roof. She's been there all day.”

They both knew the roof was off-limits, and they both knew Glynda wouldn't care.

“Is she okay?” Ozpin asked.

Odile shrugged. “Wouldn't know. That kid doesn't talk to us much. Definitely not about her feelings. If she has any.” She paused before amending: “Not that she's—a bad kid or—”

“I understand,” Ozpin said, calmly raising a hand to still her. “Although, I assure you, she has feelings aplenty. She just doesn't talk unless she thinks it's necessary to. Try not to take it personally, all right?”

“Okay,” Odile said, looking down. Before he could leave, she raised her voice: “Does she think we're mad at her or something? About the mission?”

“Yes,” Ozpin said. “But she's a little indignant and very proud, so she doesn't think she was in the wrong, either.”

“I mean…she kinda wasn't,” Odile said, drawing it out. “Even if her teamwork isn't that good. There was a whole nest of Grimm right on top of us. She did hold them off all by herself for a while. She protected us. If she hadn't taken off by herself and occupied them until we could fight—I mean—we might've all—”

“You should make sure to tell her that you're not angry with her,” Ozpin advised.

“I will,” Odile said. “Thank you, sir.”

He did not have the heart to tell her that, had Glynda not been there with that light-beacon soul of hers, the Grimm may never have attacked in the first place.

Up on the roof, just as Odile had said, he found Glynda. She was sitting with her legs hanging off the edge, kicking in the air. To a master of gravity itself such as her, the height likely meant nothing at all, despite how Ozpin felt hesitant to approach.

There was a stack of three trays next to her, some books and magazines, and a small radio. It was obvious that she had been here the entire day.

“Glynda,” he called, softly to not startle her.

She turned around. “Professor,” she said blankly.

He approached the edge and meticulously sat down next to her. “Are you well? You missed our meeting.”

“Oh, right.”

Her eyes lost focus, slid back to the horizon. It didn’t sound like she cared much.

“It’s good to see you’ve eaten,” Ozpin said, indicating the cafeteria trays.

“Odile brought it up for me.”

Her arm was out of the sling now, and she was fit to gradually return to exercise, but she was still excluded from formal lessons. Somehow, she looked more tired for her lack of classes; hollow and tired and rueful.

“I know I messed up,” she said. “But what was I supposed to do?”

“I know,” Ozpin said. “You surveyed the information you had, and acted upon it. How are your extra classes with Professor Boots?”

“They’re fine.” Glynda shrugged. “I’m good at Aura stuff.”

The sheer gall in her to make that claim after sustaining heavy Aura Strain injuries was almost humorous, but Ozpin somehow couldn’t bring himself to laugh. “Glynda, if something like this happens again—”

“I know! I know.” She raised her voice. “I’m not letting that happen.”

“When you said you didn’t care—”

“When _you_ said thousands of Huntsmen and Huntresses before me have died bitterly, what were you thinking it would teach me?”

Her tone was biting; so biting, in fact, that it surprised him. He looked over at her; she was still staring at the horizon, but her jaw was clenched and her brows furrowed and her knuckles were white as she clasped her hands together.

“I know Hunters die in the field,” she said. “My parents did.”

“Glynda—”

“I don’t remember my parents that well. But I remember the reports. I read them over and over. They were trapped in an unwinnable situation. Their team had to pull out in order to survive. My parents urged the team to go. They knew what they had to do: save the people.”

_Save the people._ Glynda’s eyes were consumed by obsession, by fire, by resolve. She kept going: “When they caved that nest in, the collapse took everything with it. The Grimm were crushed to death along with them. No retrieval unit could get to their bodies. They made that decision together, because it was the only thing they could do. I don’t know if they cried. If they were glad to be together. And I’ll never know. Because there’s no room for that in a report.”

“They wouldn’t have wanted you to throw your own life away,” Ozpin said mildly. “And neither do I.”

Glynda’s lip trembled and she said, “I don’t care. I’m a Huntress. I hunt. And I do what it takes.”

“You’re a child,” Ozpin said. “And my student. The burden isn’t yours to bear. Not yet. You have hundreds of missions ahead of you; and thousands of days to spend with your friends and colleagues.”

She didn’t say anything. She turned her face away. By the slight tremor in her shoulders, he assumed she was too proud to let him see her cry.

Gently, he put his arm around her shoulders. “Your team, your teachers—they’re worried because they care about you. We aren’t angry. You scared us.”

She nodded. “I understand,” she said weakly. “I got it. I won’t say things like that anymore. I’ll work hard with Professor Boots and get better.”

“To correct one’s own self takes the greatest amount of strength,” Ozpin said. “And you’re plenty strong. I believe in you, Glynda.”

“I won’t let you down,” she said. “I’m going to get stronger. I’m going to work hard. I’m going to make you proud.”

He said, “I am.”

For the first time since enrolling at combat school—or maybe, the first time in her life—Glynda put her arms around someone and cried.


End file.
